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found an old paper. i was 16.

"Longing Is Loneliness"

'Forgive me for my bluntness— but, forgetting is the only way I know happiness anymore. Such experiences that scratch the surfaces of intellectual crevices and emotional drainpipes, cracking them, finding light… Such people who rub your confidence raw, challenging it… Such memories, so thick with flavor and delicacy that your eyes rove backwards from day to new day, fighting to see, struggling to ignore the passing time around you..

Because what is it at all, anyways, but a preview to a new dusty memory? Memories oozing with slime coating the present and murkying the view, like bleeding wounds etched sharply into your brain, destined to scar. The longing to go back is very real, but at the same time, you are just yearning to suppress the nostalgia by any quickest means. Forgetting is a choice, when we forget how happiness works. To find happiness, only to be dragged away, to begin understanding friendship, but learn death instead, to witness family, only to watch their deterioration, over and over, and to being questioning it all…

Our friend Mr. Webster claims “longing” is for the unattainable, that we adamantly pursue or crave a long-felt desire, and he suggests it is very painful. What he does not shed light on are the many, many forms of longing, the amity and the romance, the broken hearts strewn across boulevards of broken bodies and tortured souls. Nostalgic longings, longevity longing… Life is an nebulous, sinuous labyrinth, with welded paths of rights and wrongs so complicatedly interwoven together that we wouldn’t find the map even if there was one. We are just as likely to fall onto a path leading to desolate darkness as we are to become beholden, without expecting, without preparation.

With trepidation, the trekker is alone, and grows confused at first in the ominous darkness. They find themselves finally understanding why people talk to God. They hope for a second chance and are already wise enough to know not everyone is so lucky to get one. This longing, this growing, animated, and electrical longing, starts under the skin, coiling consistently as none of the paths lead to light. A longing for a hero, a longing for a sign, a longing to know where you went wrong and which is the direction back to what you wanted.

The longing to love, however— how can I possibly know? Do children love like adults love, and is there a better or a worse heartbreak? We as a species are powered to find people to love us, and to learn how to love them back, with whatever broken pieces and baggage we have to share. As friends, as lovers, so great is our longing for connection that we kill ourselves on the inside, because maybe another self would have more of a shot. So great is our longing, we kill, over and over, if not ourselves, we kill them with spite and with jealousy, with disappearances and betrayals, with cruelty and indifference. In the dark, lugubrious chambers¬† of adolescence, the deep-rooted anxiety that tells us we will always be alone is our closest lover. Listening to our fears about love, we stray from who we are and in the end we won’t love anyone, not even ourselves, not like that.

Longing can never be ephemeral. It is not temporary, it is our destiny. It is unlike greediness, which can be satisfied materially, or selfishness, which can not. The want for an unfulfilled desire is a bestial leech, plastered on your innermost most sensitive organs, implacably. The leech sucks and sucks, filling with your warm blood, satisfying a craving, but never feeling full. The longing begins to subside with the lengthening time and the failure to feel full, along with the leech’s lust to live. When the longing is gone, the leech continues to sadly suck, because longing cannot disappear completely. When we think we have forgotten, we are only lying to ourselves. Can we ever feel full after longing, and receiving? I have not. Longing is only the excuse to live fictitiously, pining over unattainable people. Cohered together from many tears over time, these forgotten memories will resurface, and they will proscribe your fulfillment in future experiences as a miserable barricade that doesn’t want to grow any larger from any new memories, and that doesn’t want you to, either.’

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(via whorecruxs)

Source : darkkparaddisee
nyctaeus:

The Terrible Rain: The War Poets 1939-45

nyctaeus:

The Terrible Rain: The War Poets 1939-45

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Source : nyctaeus

(via junipero)

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gettyimages:

Great shot yesterday of German fans holidaying in Mallorca as they watched Germany v France In FIFA World Cup Caption:PALMA DE MALLORCA, SPAIN - JULY 04: A waiter holds up a dish full of beers as German fans watch the 2014 FIFA World Cup Quarter Final match Between Germany and France at the Mega Park Arena Club on July 4, 2014 in Palma de Mallorca, Spain. (Photo by David Ramos/Getty Images)

gettyimages:

Great shot yesterday of German fans holidaying in Mallorca as they watched Germany v France In FIFA World Cup
Caption:PALMA DE MALLORCA, SPAIN - JULY 04: A waiter holds up a dish full of beers as German fans watch the 2014 FIFA World Cup Quarter Final match Between Germany and France at the Mega Park Arena Club on July 4, 2014 in Palma de Mallorca, Spain. (Photo by David Ramos/Getty Images)

(via vvni)

Source : gettyimages
ashesofhearts:

I had no idea I was a novelist. 

ashesofhearts:

I had no idea I was a novelist. 

(via astheworldmelts)

Source : ashesofhearts

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

Charles Bukowski (via wooden-folks)

(via mor-phing)

Source : wordsnquotes